


If You Play with Fire

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anonymous Sex, BAMF!John, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Breathplay, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Gangbang, Humiliation, Kink Shaming, Knives, M/M, Mindfuck, dark!john, incest themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8945623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: This is decidedly dark. John is not very nice, except that he kind of pretends to be. Not straight-up non-con, but definitely dubious and psychological. John indulges Sherlock's humiliation kink, but ends up planting a seed in his head that he can't quite shake.





	

When Sherlock Holmes is an inquisitive little boy, his brother pulls him out of most messes. Supercilious and condescending, Mycroft often repeats the old adage about playing with fire. Sherlock doesn't listen. 

When Sherlock Holmes is nineteen, he discovers a kink for extremes, for humiliation and the feeling that he is in over his head. Cut off from the family money on account of his bad habits, he instead finds himself desperate and tonguing up pills directly from Victor Trevor's fingers, ordered to show appropriate gratitude by his boyfriend-turned-benefactor with the haunting dark eyes. Mycroft later finds him on the floor of a drug den, tongue hanging obscenely out of his mouth to receive some stranger's spunk, and rescues his brother without comment. After the STI tests, they never speak of it again.

When Sherlock Holmes is thirty-four, he confesses a fantasy to John Watson. It never occurs that this might turn out to be the time he most needs saving.

~*~ 

“Good boy,” John coos, slipping two fingers into the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and hooking them inside his cheek. He’s blindfolded, naked and bound, a terrible cliché but he has no desire to complain at the moment. John has behaved admirably, setting up the fantasy scenario without complaint or admonishment, slipping effortlessly into the Captain Watson persona Sherlock has so hungered for since seeing him pull rank at Baskerville. He wonders how much his own fantasies align with John’s—their relationship is new, certainly, but John’s penchant for danger has already shown up in the bedroom. Just a few nights ago, Sherlock almost felt genuine fear when John’s hands slipped to his throat at the brink of orgasm and squeezed, merciless, the doctor’s authority absolute. He might’ve tapped out after a few more seconds, but he can’t say for sure. His own desire to flirt with danger often overrides sense.

“Give us a go, then,” a gravelly voice interrupts Sherlock’s thoughts, above him and slightly to the left. John’s fingers shift to stroke his tongue, knuckles holding his mouth open so that he cannot suck. 

“When I’m ready,” John responds, steely. The other man grunts, but doesn’t argue. The reminder that John is in charge here is somewhat comforting, given that Sherlock has offered free reign on all other variables. He doesn’t know how many men are present, what they’re going to do to him. Doesn’t want to, and has demanded total ignorance. John, ever the physician, will insist on precautions, but beyond that Sherlock is at his mercy. He shivers when an unfamiliar hand caresses his flank, but his instinctual jerk is caught up short by the rough tug of rope.

“Be good for us, sweetheart,” John murmurs in his ear, pressing his tongue down until the pressure is slightly painful. “Don’t test my patience.” The point of a knife at the side of his neck is surprising, given that they haven’t ever discussed such games. Sherlock frowns and makes a soft sound. John laughs, an unfamiliar sharp note to it.

“You didn’t think you were the only one with fantasies?” John’s tone is mocking, a role perhaps but an efficient one. Sherlock’s heart thumps slightly faster in his chest. “I have a plan in mind for you, tonight. Be a good toy for us, put on a good show, and nobody has to hurt more than they want to.” The knife scrapes upward to his jaw, digs in painfully there. “It’s a shame about the blindfold, though,” he whispers, low and confidential. “I’d like to see real fear in your eyes for this like I did the other night.” Sherlock inhales sharply, and then the fingers in his mouth are gone, as is the knife, as is the reassuring whisper. He doesn’t get much warning before blunt slick fingers are pushing against his hole. 

~*~ 

Sherlock keeps count of the men in the room, but his accuracy diminishes over the course of the scene. Was the one who’d fucked his throat so carelessly, heedless of his choking sobs, also the one who’d asked for a turn at first, or was that the man with the large hands who’d kept a vicious grip on his cock as he’d fucked him? He’s dropping into the velvet grip of his own fantasies before too long, and it’s made more unnerving by the fact that even as he sinks further and further, humiliated into simply extending his exhausted tongue for more as a group of strangers laughs at him, there’s no hint of John in the room. No more encouraging whispers, not even threatening ones. He images John standing stalwart over the proceedings, arms crossed over his chest, silently nodding permission to allow different men access, but he doesn’t _know_. John could have left him alone in this basement for all he’s certain, and he shivers in real fear at the thought even as a hand slaps his face and a new cock breaches his lips.  

“Five minutes. I appreciate both the surveillance and the background checks, but _five minutes_.” 

John’s voice is barely loud enough to hear. The response isn’t. Sherlock chokes a bit, and two men standing over him chuckle. He strains to hear more, only catches snippets.

“I’m serious about this.  ...getting your rocks off isn’t worth damaging...” 

Sherlock’s muddled mind fills in the conversational gaps, tries to decide if the conclusion he reaches is even possible. Admittedly, he _has_  been wondering how John managed to find a sizable group of men that he trusts to both fuck Sherlock and keep the secret of this evening’s activities afterward. Army mates, perhaps, but there are at least seven people here, and not all mates would even be interested in fucking a man, let alone in the context of a heavy humiliation scene. Within that group, how many would John with his high standards trust enough to participate?  

On top of the casting, finding a secure location would have been challenging, more so given the fact that John had to get him to this warehouse basement, blindfolded, without anyone noticing Sherlock’s predicament. He hadn’t thought too much about the car when they’d been en route, too distracted by the promises John had murmured in his ear, by his boyfriend’s wandering hands. Now he pieces together the clues — the car, the driver, the warehouse basement, the men, the streets both outside their flat and above their current location apparently clear of anyone concerned enough by a blindfolded man being led about at night to ring 999. Background checks. Surveillance. 

Would John really…?

Sherlock cries out, jarred from his line of thinking, by a particularly hard thrust into his already sore arse. 

“Distracted are we, sweetheart?” He can picture the man’s grin, though he has no idea what he looks like. Someone to the right spits in his face, then tweaks his nipple. Another thrust grinds into his prostate and Sherlock whimpers, brought back to the moment. But he can’t drop the train of thought entirely. The silence from John, after the bits of conversation, is unnerving. It’s perhaps slightly more unnerving that his erection hasn’t wilted, even in the face of the unlikely deduction. 

Mycroft is gay, he thinks, reviewing the facts. Mycroft is sexually frustrated. He’s never thought much of his brother, in some regards. He knows enough of Sherlock to think him little more than a common slut, despite the familial love he occasionally expresses through cryptic actions. He does like believing himself better than Sherlock. But there are certain lines he doesn’t think Mycroft would cross. 

“Oi,” the man currently fucking him exclaims, thrusts slowing slightly though the bruising grip on Sherlock’s hips does not relent. “I thought he was just the suit you hired to threaten us. Planning to join in the action, guv?” Again, Sherlock pictures a smarmy smile. Unwillingly, he also pictures his brother in a three-piece suit, standing off to the side, glaring daggers. One of the men chooses that moment to squeeze Sherlock’s cock, and he moans unintentionally, burning with humiliation as he weighs the odds of whether Mycroft is actually standing over him, witnessing his depravity. If he is, he has to know that Sherlock knows--that he suspects, at least. He must guess the cause of Sherlock's blush. If it's only a mindfuck, well--perhaps that's more plausible, but would John even think to set such a thing up only to toy with him?

“All right,” John warns. “No one paid you to be smart. Open your mouth, Sherlock.” John’s fingers are familiar, digging into his cheeks, the other hand in his hair, tipping his head back. A hard thrust slides him just enough up the bench to let his head drop back, throat an unbroken hollow channel as John holds him in place. Something drops in his gut as he hears a familiar cadence, Oxfords on concrete. The new man — _Mycroft_ , his brain insists — doesn’t touch him. John holds his head in place. The weight on his tongue is right, neither the length nor girth of the man who slips past his gag reflex proving his deductions incorrect. The sum total of emotions and stimulations from the night keep logic at bay for Sherlock, and his eyes fill with tears as the cock down his throat keeps forcing him to the brink of asphyxiation, greedily taking pleasure from his body. 

“Fuck,” John whispers above him. “That shouldn’t…” He cuts himself off, but he sounds wrecked, operating on sexual instinct. A moment later, there’s a shift near his head and John’s mouth is at his ear again. “I’m going to fuck you so hard later. I can’t decide if I’d rather have your arse or your mouth… maybe both?” Sherlock whimpers, gasping for air the next chance he gets. “There’s a certain appeal to fucking you here,” John continues, stroking his cheek, “when you’re slack and exhausted. And when I know you want it. Greedy slut.” 

His consent is what makes this possible, Sherlock reasons. For all the dark sexual inclinations John seems to hint at, it’s Sherlock’s confession that actually brought this on. He remembers begging for Victor, the intense sudden spiral of want and dread when he’d realized, all those years ago, how degradation turned him on. And here, the ultimate degradation — all he can think of as warm spunk floods over his tongue is that hazy drugged-out memory of Mycroft standing over him so many years ago, silently disapproving of the debauchery in progress. His muscles seize up all at once as someone strokes him in a furious rhythm, John encouraging at his ear, and he unwillingly thinks of his brother as he comes.

~*~

After the scene, John is extremely solicitous. He does everything right, cares for Sherlock and takes him home and wraps him in blankets and makes him tea. Gone are the threats from the start of the night, the knife, the psychological games. Sherlock is terribly suspicious, but there are no clues obvious enough to fully confirm those suspicions. He’ll have to ask.

He waits till the following day, and then attempts to catch John off guard as he’s preparing dinner. “John. When did you last see my brother?” he asks casually, hoping for an instinctive honest answer before John realizes what he’s been asked. Instead, the muscles in John’s back stiffen, and he’s still a moment before he returns to stirring the pasta sauce. 

“Mycroft? I’m not sure, really. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” 

Sherlock frowns and considers pressing him, but John always goes hard when interrogated, and it’s not worth challenging that stubbornness. Still, the reaction makes him nervous. What other reason would John have for going tense at a mention of Mycroft? Certainly, he doesn’t _like_  the man, but he’s not uncomfortable around him. In fact, Mycroft usually goads John into gleeful antagonism, rather than discomfort. He’s more likely to mutter insults than to freeze up at the topic, normally. And the way John had sounded the previous night, negotiating with the man that may or may not have been Mycroft, suggests that he _wasn’t_  really comfortable with it, much less with his own arousal at watching what transpired. Sherlock’s observations line up too cleanly for comfort.

But it’s Sherlock’s own fault that he can’t _stop_ thinking about it, even when they retire to bed later that evening, even when John’s teeth are savagely digging into his shoulder, fingers pressing into fresh bruises on his hips. It’s no surprise that John’s instinct to claim territory is heightened after last night’s scene, but it _is_  a surprise that Sherlock’s mind keeps drifting back to that one man, that one particular fuck. Or maybe not surprising — entirely predictable, given what Sherlock knows about the human brain. It’s like trying not to picture an elephant when someone is directed not to do so, but in this case far more disturbing. Fortunately, John doesn’t ask him whose face he pictures as he comes, doesn’t ask anything at all. John drops quickly into light snores that night, while Sherlock stays awake for hours, his mind trapped on one terrifying question.

~*~

“Are you still thinking about it?” John asks him a week later while pinning him face down to the mattress, rutting into Sherlock’s arse at a relentless rhythm. “Have you been getting off on your own degradation?” 

Sherlock whimpers, turns his face to the other side. He’s been asking John questions, trying to get to the truth about Mycroft’s participation, and John’s only been cagey in response. He’s so sure now, but for once a deduction won’t do. He needs to hear it, needs John to just fucking  _confirm_. Perhaps it wouldn’t drive him to such distraction, if he knew for sure, knew that John really did commit such a horrifying taboo. Perhaps he would be able to direct his energy to anger, get past it or not. But instead, it’s all he can think about, and he’s starting to wonder if John _knows_. After all, Sherlock doesn’t _really_  know how deep John’s penchant for the dark and psychological goes. Is he torturing Sherlock needlessly on purpose? Is he getting off on it? He wants to ask John point-blank, but what if he’s wrong? Assuming something so devious of John would be decidedly _not good_ , if he’s wrong. So he hasn’t asked. And now he’s trapped under John again, rubbing his cock against the bed and secretly getting off on thoughts of his own god-damned brother. He nods guiltily into the pillow. Above him, his lover laughs.

“Slut. I thought so. God… I can’t believe you went for it. Thought you might safeword.” Sherlock’s eyes snap open.

“Why?” he gasps. “I asked for it.”

If he hopes to catch John in a confession in the height of his passion, Sherlock is disappointed. John doesn’t answer, but claps his hand over Sherlock’s mouth, palm tasting of sweat and musk, and shoves himself deep into Sherlock’s arse where he stills with a deep groan. Sherlock’s struggling in earnest, fighting for air and reaching back to claw at John, when he suddenly comes, and finally John’s hand tears away. Gulping for oxygen, he thinks of Mycroft dispassionately observing the proceedings, always judging but not necessarily above it all, and he squeezes his eyes shut. 

~*~

It’s been three weeks. Not enough cases, not enough distractions. He wants to visit a dealer, but he’s smart enough to know he’d never get away with it, these days. He alternates between nearly tearing his hair out and masturbating furiously in the shower. He never used to wank off much before. Certainly not without John. It feels like a dark, gnawing secret in his belly. 

He goes to the Diogenes Club.

“Sherlock. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. He glares, trying to deduce, finding nothing physically on his brother nor in the Stranger’s Room, but that’s no surprise. Mycroft’s face is a mask of indifference.

“Did you pay him?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t flinch. “Pardon?”

“John. Did you pay him off to keep quiet?” 

Mycroft looks genuinely confused. He frowns, and Sherlock watches him mentally search for context. Either he has no idea what Sherlock is talking about, or he’s a very good actor. The latter certainly is true, though sometimes Sherlock can catch him out. He goes for shock value, then. 

“I know exactly what you did the night of the 12th. Did you think I couldn’t smell you, brother dear?” He sneers, but Mycroft still looks genuinely lost for understanding. He’s almost certain he would’ve got _something_  out of that bluff, were he right. Instead his brother frowns, slips his smartphone from his pocket, and taps the screen a few times.

“The 12th of last month? I was in Taipei. It was a public event, Sherlock, there were photographers. If you’d like to confirm.” 

Sherlock frowns, considers a moment, and then turns on his heel, feeling the blush rise in his cheeks. In the taxi, he consults Google News and feels even smaller when he finds the fifth news item covering the gala, Mycroft’s image in the background a reliable alibi. When he reaches Baker Street, he doesn’t know how to feel. He had been _sure_  of it. John’s reactions had been so… 

He frowns, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Been to see your brother?” John asks mildly, looking up from his phone. He’s sitting in his chair, ankle crossed over the opposite knee. There’s a cup of tea on the side table at his elbow. Sherlock’s eyes narrow.

“What are you doing?” 

John just smiles, gentle as always ( _except when he’s not_ , Sherlock’s brain supplies), and rises. “Me? I haven’t done anything. You, on the other hand…” He trails off into a low whistle, pressing a palm over Sherlock’s chest. “You’ve been thinking some naughty thoughts, Sherlock.” He stares down at John, quickly calculating, and tries to slap his hand away. He ends up twisted and shoved face-first into the wall for his troubles. 

“Don’t blame me,” John growls into his ear. “You’re the one with the kink for being objectified. For being dirty and low. How many people, in your position, would even imagine such a thing?”

“You encouraged it!” Sherlock splutters. “You made me think it was him. You… _kept_  making me think it was him.” 

“But you got off on it. I didn’t make your fantasies happen, love. You’re the one who ran with it, or you would’ve just asked. You let yourself get off on it.”  

“Stop,” Sherlock whispers. John has his arm pinned up behind his back. His lips are at Sherlock’s ear, too intimate. His brain is a swirling mess. He just needs to _think_.

“You got off on thinking about your brother’s cock in your exhausted, slack little mouth. You were drooling for it, Sherlock. You got _off_  on having no control. You wanted to be helpless and degraded. I only encouraged you.” 

“You planted the idea in my mind.” 

“But you watered the seed. Think about it, honestly,” John offers, stepping back, giving Sherlock control of his own body. “When you fantasize, what do you think about? Have you ever stopped yourself because your ideas got too filthy?”

“That’s beside the point,” Sherlock mutters to the wallpaper.

“Is it, though? Think of the things you’ve told me, love. You keep needing more. More and more desperate, you. Darker and deeper. You said, specifically, about that scene, ‘no limits.’ I had to come up with _something_  to fulfill that. I honestly don’t think you have a line, and I think this proves it.” 

“So… what? You’re arguing that you were trying to fulfill my fantasy by letting me believe that I was…?” 

“Fucking your brother?”

“Yes,” Sherlock spits, finally turning around and meeting John’s eye.

“ _Yes_. I brought you to the lowest of the low. But I didn’t hurt you. It wasn’t real. You could’ve stopped it at any time. You didn’t, Sherlock.”

At that, his eyes drop to the floor, because this is what’s haunted him for these past few weeks. He clenches his hands into fists. “You made me… _want_  him. How am I supposed to forgive that?”  

“I didn’t think you’d go this far,” John argues, and he sounds earnest. Then again, John always sounds earnest. Sherlock doesn’t know what to trust anymore. Doesn’t know where he’ll ever find someone else like John, either, someone who makes his blood burn and fear spark pleasure throughout his body. John smiles, mild and even.  

“If you don’t like it, Sherlock, you can always delete it. If you want to, all you have to do is delete the attraction, right?”

Sherlock stares at him, considers it, and then lets out a pained sound, his hands jerking at his sides. “No.” He admits, shaking his head. He feels completely powerless. John’s mouth twists into a delighted grin. 

“Then I win,” John murmurs, pressing Sherlock back up against the wall, his back slamming into it as John bites at his mouth to the point of blood. 

~*~

When Sherlock Holmes is thirty-four, he admits that he may actually be in over his head, and that he should probably try to get out. 

He doesn’t.  

Sometimes, Sherlock likes the burn. 


End file.
